


All I Want

by BryroseA



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Light Christmas angst, Logan POV, Navy!Logan, Veronica Mars Holiday Gift Exchange 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BryroseA/pseuds/BryroseA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan Echolls' last Christmas in a Veronica Mars-less world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nikatsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikatsu/gifts).



> For the Veronica Mars Holiday Gift Exchange, I was so, so pleased to get to write something for the lovely **chovstek** , who is that most treasured thing in fanfic, a wonderful and regular commenter. I can’t count the number of times your comments have brought smiles to my face when I was sitting there, anxiously biting my nails after posting. 
> 
> I wound up not using any of your prompts, because I’m a horrible person like that, but instead tried to write you something I hope you’ll like. A very happy holiday season and end of the year to you, dear chovstek. Hope you enjoy your angsty-Logan-POV-with-some-smut present!

___________

 

_“I don't want a lot for Christmas. There is just one thing I need”_

_________

 

It’s Christmas morning and Logan Echolls is running on the beach, his feet slapping the sand in rhythm to the navy cadence running through his mind. _‘I don't know, but it's been said.’_ The air holds that particular quality of clammy chill that is unique to the California coast in the winter; a cold somehow just as piercing and present as the Rhode Island weather he’d endured during OCS. _‘Air force wings are made of lead.’_ Logan breaks stride to hurdle over a large lump of beached kelp and then slips right back into rhythm. Sand flying. Feet pounding. _‘I don't know, but I've been told.’_ He’s bundled up in his Navy sweats and running full out, but he can still feel the chill creeping in. And thinking about trivialities like the weather and his attire and cadences— _‘Navy wings are made of gold’—_ keeps away other thoughts he’s trying to ignore, like why he is basically the only person on the beach at this early hour. 

Because it’s Christmas.

_Alone again, naturally._

The run hasn’t settled him as well as he’d hoped. Over six miles under his belt and his thoughts are still melancholy. He passes the oddly shaped boulder that marks roughly a mile from Dick’s house, sighing mentally and giving in to a momentary pity-party. Being alone for the holidays is nothing new, of course, Logan’s holidays are usually pretty shitty in general, but add in the bad head cold he’s just gotten over, and Christmas 2015 is shaping up to be as crappy as any he’s had in a while.

The final blow out with Carrie a month ago had been almost a relief when it came. She’d been spiraling—they’d been spiraling—for a long time. Little split ups. Reunions. On and off and on again. So sickeningly like high school that he’s had a constant knot in his belly that has only recently begun to loosen a bit. Logan breathes out in a steady hiss at the thought and angles his course a little down the beach toward the tide line, searching for harder packed sand.

So yeah, the break up is…fine. Too long in coming, probably. But ending a long-term relationship a month before Christmas did kind of put a damper on his holiday plans. He and Carrie had been planning to hole up together and binge watch old film noir movies, so Dick had accepted a rare invitation to Biarritz to see his Mom and Logan had turned down all of the well-meaning invites from fellow squad mates who know he doesn’t have any family. All of them would still welcome him, even at this late date, he’s sure, but Logan had just not been quite up for that conversation. _Hey so, as you may have read in the tabloids, I broke up with my girlfriend. Is that Christmas invite still open?_

It doesn’t matter anyway. There are plenty of places he could go and be welcome, but nowhere that he belongs. Spending the day alone just seems more honest somehow.

At some point, he’d decided to just muscle through Christmas like he normally does. Treat is as simply another morning off. Sleep in—although that didn’t happen, damn the Navy training—go for a long, tiring run on the nearly empty beach. Later, maybe he’ll order some Chinese takeout. _Alert the media._ _Son of a movie star orders mu shu pork._ At least this evening there is the flyover to look forward to. The day can follow his typical holiday agenda; keep busy. Enjoy the peace. Enjoy the solitude. _Right_.

Logan steers around a sink hole in the sand—the remnant of what must have been some serious sand castle construction the day before—and thinks back to the last really happy Christmas he had. He was thirteen and in the eighth grade. He and Duncan and Lilly had all wound up at the Mars house, the only place where the decorations weren’t rented from a designer and the presents were hand-wrapped. Sprawled on Veronica’s couch –  a lump of four teenagers watching _The Year Without A Santa Claus_. Logan tangled up with Lilly, his foot jerking out to prod Veronica’s ankle in rhythm to the Heat Miser song. Veronica rolling her eyes in response. The four-way wrestling match that ensued. That’s how he likes to remember Christmas. Real family.

The next year, Christmas was just months after Lilly died—all he remembers from that one is a blur of alcohol and loathing—and after that the holiday pretty much went downhill. Stabbings and death and break ups and loneliness. It had gotten to a point for a while there where he’d felt like misery had dogged his footsteps, creeping behind him like a miasma. Infecting everything and everyone he touched. _Logan Echolls, emotional Typhoid Mary_.

Lately, since his life has evened out a bit, he’s had a few not completely shitty holidays. Last year, being deployed on the boat was actually kind of fun. Somehow being alone in the midst of thousands of other people who were also feeling alone helped a bit. Logan smiles briefly at the thought of the wing’s LSOs waving in planes while dressed as Santa.

The beach curves slightly, offering some belated protection from the wind and bringing Dick’s house into view. As Logan huffs over the last few yards of sand, a few people are starting to appear down the beach—either done with presents or not celebrating. It’s time for him to go inside.

He lets himself into the beach house and shucks his clothes off in the living room, rubbing his body briskly all over with a towel he’d left by the door. The house is quiet, only the slight electronic hum of the refrigerator and ceiling fans breaking up the silence as Logan walks, naked, into the kitchen for a glass of water. _Casual Christmas nudity—benefit number one of being alone in the house today_.

He chugs the water quickly, droplets of cold liquid sliding down his chin and onto his chest, before heading toward the bathroom to take a shower. As he passes back through the living room, Logan’s gaze falls on the cordless phone on the side table.

 _I should really call Carrie. Check up on her._ The holidays are rough for her, too, he knows. Perhaps it’s selfish of him, though, but Logan just can’t quite face the thought of a stilted Christmas phone call to his ex, with her particular brand of sadness and snappishness. ( _You’re such a fucking hypocrite, Logan; what do you think you are, a saint?)_

Long purple hair fanned across his chest and the scent of vodka and that damnable, damnable knot in his stomach. He pushes it down, pushes it away, closes his eyes and breathes through it.

Biting his lip, Logan centers himself with an old trick, picturing blue eyes—just the eyes—slate colored and soft. He focuses on the color, letting it bleed out behind his eyelids, washing the world in the cool hue of home. _God, it’s been nine years._ He’s got to stop looking to her to save him.

He snaps his eyes open. Pity-party done.

_Still three hours until you need to report to base. Take a shower, order some food, and break out a book. Enjoy your peace and solitude. You’ll be wishing for it soon enough when deployment starts._

Snagging his clothes from the back of the couch, Logan tosses his sweaty shirt over the cordless phone for good measure.

_Merry Christmas, Carrie. I hope you stay away from the eggnog._

_________

 

By Christmas evening, Logan is himself again, strapped into the seat of an F/A-18C Hornet and heading up the California coast toward Anaheim.

Carrie had called on his drive to base, but Logan had just stared at her name on the car’s Bluetooth display, letting the call ring through until his answering machine picked up. Up here, with some perspective, that seems like a petty and selfish decision. _I shouldn’t have ignored her call. I said I’d be there for her. I’ll do better next time._

Being in the cockpit clears his mind like nothing else. He’s spent the last two weeks recovering from a serious head cold, which means he hasn’t been in the air in what feels like forever. More than anything, Logan craves that release, that freedom. No one may need him on land, but the military sure as hell needs him in the air.

Now that’s he’s cleared to fly again, and behind on the twenty-five hours of flight time he needs every month for “prime mission readiness,” Logan had jumped at the chance to do an evening training sortie that includes a public flyover at the end of the Disneyland holiday parade. Usually the flyovers are popular flight slots, but this particular one on Christmas had been a tough sell to some of the pilots in his squad with families. For Logan, it couldn’t come at a better time. A reminder of all that is good and right in his world is exactly what he needs today.

The navy loves to have its aviators do flyovers at sporting events, air shows, and parades for the “awareness” and “connection to the public.” The pilots—most would admit—love the opportunity to show off their craft to a screaming, appreciative crowd.

Over the Pacific Ocean, several miles off the coast, Logan reaches the designated holding point for the flyover. He checks the kneeboard strapped to his thigh, does some brief mental airspeed and distance calculations, and starts his circular pattern, proscribing mindless loops in the sky.

Down on the ground, Webster—Jason Richardson, one of the squad’s pilots who is serving as the forward air controller—has set up a command station on Disneyland’s Main Street so that he can signal Logan. Webster’s wife and young son were delighted to spend Christmas night getting the Disney VIP experience.

_They’re probably watching the parade right now._

Logan toggles his radio over to the frequency Webster is on. “Ground, this is Bobcat one-four-five. Do you copy?”

His squadron’s call sign—from their mascot, the Hellcats—had stabbed at him a bit when he’d first joined them. Tonight, though, Logan is happy to embrace the familiar word in his mouth, welcoming the mingled nostalgia and longing that streams in its wake. 

“Roger, one-four-five. How’s the air up there, Mouth?”

“Looking good. I’m at angels three and holding. How’s the House of Mouse?”

“Great, man. The kid got to meet Goofy. He’s over the moon excited, the wife is happy, and I am _definitely_ getting laid tonight.”

Logan chuckles. “A Christmas miracle.”

“Oh, he’s a big talker from thousands of feet in the air.”

A minute of companionable silence. Logan glances down at the coastline now on the right side of his plane. The sun is setting - not one of the more spectacular ones he's seen, but it limns the structures on the coast in charcoal black. The exception is a large open expanse which is mostly devoid of buildings; the Marine base Camp Pendleton. He's right outside their airspace, the line carefully delineated during his pre-flight briefing. Logan checks to make sure his radio com switch is set to the private frequency. “Hey Webster, guess what I’m looking down on?" He taps the top of the stick jauntily. "Jarheads.” 

Webster’s voice crackles back through his headset a minute later. “Us heroes always look down on the Jarheads, Mouth.” Logan grins into his mask. Nothing like a little ritual cracking on the Marines to make the yuletide bright.

“Try to resist the urge to buzz them though. Wouldn’t do to spend Christmas up in front of a FNAEB.”

“Damn you and your reason and logic.”

“Will it make you feel better if we remind ourselves what Marine stands for?”

Logan rolls his eyes at the tired joke, but recites along, "My Ass Rides In Navy Equipment."

“Damn straight.” A moment of radio silence and then Webster is back, his voice now crisp and official. “Okay, the parade is wrapping up right on time and we’re coming up on your TOT. Ready to fly, Mouth?”

“Ready.”

Logan’s mind sharpens, his hands making instinctive motions on the stick and instruments, thoughts racing forward along the jet’s flight path. He checks his watch, checks the HUD display.

_3…2…1…_

“You’re clear.”

_Go!_

In under a minute, he’s cruising over the coastline— _feet dry_ —and checking in with Webster for a detailed-to-the-second arrival time. Winging away from the coast, the air around him is just starting to take on the blue-violet tinge of twilight. Up ahead, Logan can see his rapidly approaching target, the lights of the giant animatronic parade figures dissolved by distance and speed into a blurry neon rope, snaking down the parade route.

He can feel the adrenaline starts to hum through his veins—not the same as flying a combat mission, of course, but a different kind of pressure. Speed. Precision. Everyone is watching what he does but no one will see who he is. _Perfect._

The flyover goes off without a hitch. Arriving right on time, Logan takes the jet down to its minimum altitude of a thousand feet and goes screaming over Sleeping Beauty’s castle and then rocketing past the cheering, bundled up crowd that only registers as a blur of humanity. He punches the afterburners just as he crests over the parade route, igniting raw jet fuel and sending out cones of white hot flame behind the engines, amping up the sound and the awesome factor for the spectators below.

_Merry Christmas to me._

Seconds later, it’s over, the parade rapidly receding into the distance. The adrenaline dies down as quickly as it came, leaving him oddly limp and bereft. As Logan wheels the jet away to head off for the rest of his much more standard flight hours, far below him fireworks are exploding over the happiest place on earth. Down there are twinkling lights and happy families; people together and enjoying their holiday. Up here, nothing but cold, clear atmosphere and an empty road ahead.

Just as he heads out of radio frequency, Webster’s faint voice crackles, “Good flying Bobcat…”

_And Merry Christmas to you, too. Wherever you are._

_________

 

Only five days later, he would give anything to be flying lonely through the night air. He’d give anything to have a sad, spiraling ex-girlfriend again, because now she’s gone. Carrie is gone and she’s never coming back and everyone thinks he is to blame.

Logan emerges from the sheriff’s department into a world gone bleak. Holiday lights turned off, wreaths stripped from doors. You would never know that Christmas had just happened. In Neptune the decorations come down early.

But then wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, his desperate shot in the dark—his phone call into the void—works. She’s there. She answers. She'll help.

A few days later, Veronica comes back into town, hope and magic sweeping behind her like the plumy contrail of a jet. 

 _Epiphany,_ his mind offers when he picks her up at the airport. _Today is Epiphany._

She stays.

She stays again and then she stays some more and every time he can feel his fucking heart grow three sizes.

After he tells her about Carrie’s death—tells the story to someone who believes him for the first time—they drive with no real discussion of their destination. Logan’s hands take him unerringly to Dog Beach, a place he hasn’t been in years. When he pulls into a parking spot on the bluffs overlooking the ocean, Veronica gives a small nod and smiles at him.

She settles back into the BMW’s leather seat a bit, turning her face up to the weak January sun like a thirsty plant, and closing her eyes. “So, what kind of plane do you fly?” It’s a clear cue that she doesn’t want to talk about Carrie, or the case. Surprising, coming from her, but welcome.

Their conversation rambles around, from his Hornet, to law school, to favorite-burritos-I-have-eaten, never really touching on anything personal between them or on the circumstances of Veronica’s visit, but not avoiding them awkwardly either. It’s really just…easy. Funny, witty. Veronica Mars, his oldest friend.

Logan can feel that perpetual knot in his stomach start to unravel bit by bit, warmth seeping into him with every quip, every smirk. It’s a pretty good fucking feeling to know that he can still surprise a genuine laugh out of her.  

They trade more stories—the clueless stuck up attorney Veronica worked for as a paralegal; Ready Room exploits of Logan’s squad mates.

It is easily the best afternoon Logan has had in… _a really long time_.

“Hey Logan,” she says finally, wiping her eyes after a fit of laughter at his story about Beeper and his never-ending quest for the perfect pickup line, “I’m glad to be here. Thanks for calling me.”

Logan blinks at her, feeling his expression slacken into a disbelieving gape, because how on earth can she thank _him_ when she’s the one who dropped everything, who flew all the way out here to save his ass again, who _stayed_.

Off his expression, he can see her draw back a bit, hesitant for the first time since he saw her at the airport. “I just meant…thanks for thinking of me.”

 _I never stopped_.

“Veronica...”

She smiles, mask back on, becoming professional Veronica between one heartbeat and the next. “It’s getting late, can you drop me at Dad’s office? I want to do some intel gathering on Ruby.”

_________

 

Dick’s beach house is equipped with a small, but well-stocked, work-out room and that is where Logan finds himself early in the morning four days after Veronica unravels the Gia-Cobb-Carrie-Luke scenario. _And gets herself shot at._ He’d jolted awake with his heart in his throat, pulse still racing from a dream that dissipated as soon as he reached for it. The bedroom was empty.

 _Nothing. It was nothing. No one is here._ Blue. Calming, ever-present blue.

Logan had hastily tugged on a pair of slick gray basketball shorts and started long sets of pull ups on the curl bar.

Once his hands are too slippery for a proper grip, he drops to the ground for sets of push ups, alternating in a diamond-style hand formation that Vic, the squad’s resident gym rat, swears pumps up your pecs, but that Logan likes for the extra burn it provides.

Finally, soaked in sweat and pleasantly relaxed, he ambles back through the house, intending to call Veronica—who had spent the night at the hospital after her dad had another surgery. He’s stopped by muffled clanging coming from the kitchen.

“Hello?” _Dick? Or…_

“Just me!” Veronica’s voice. She let herself in. This new reality is stunning and dazzling in all of the best ways, but it will take some time to get used to. Time he doesn’t have, unfortunately.

Logan comes around the corner to find himself blessed with a pretty epic view of Veronica’s ass—she is face first into the lower cabinets, rummaging around. He’s momentarily mesmerized by the sway of her rear, back and forth. Back and forth. The dimple at the base of her spine is just peeking out of the back of her jeans. _Haven’t had a chance to say a thorough hello to that old friend yet._ Logan clears his throat. “What are you looking for?”

A dull thump. “Damn. Waffle iron?”

“Oh…above the stove,” Logan says, a bit regretfully.

Veronica emerges from under the sink, a familiar pan held in her hand. “What’s this?”

“Oh Jesus, sorry. That’s Dick’s Christmas stash. I’d…put that back if I were you.”

“Done and done.” She pinches the pan between two of her fingers and drops it into the sink, turning back around to face him with a wry smile.

Not missing the way her eyes scan appreciatively from his loose basketball shorts up his bare torso, Logan leans back a little, stretching himself out against the counter, flexing his muscles and giving her his best smirk.

Veronica rolls her eyes. “Christmas stash, huh? What exactly did you guys do this year?”

“Oh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “We didn’t do anything. Dick was out of town and I had to work. Well, it’s hardly work, really – I did a flyover at Disneyland for a training run.”

“In your jet?”

“Yeah.”

She cocks her head. Interested. Focused on him. “They make you work on Christmas?”

“I volunteered for this flight.” He shrugs. “Seemed like a nice thing to do, since most of the other guys celebrate with their families.” At the look of veiled understanding in her eyes, Logan shakes himself off. _Not what I need right now_. He saunters over toward Veronica and leans down to give her a kiss. “I can think of another nice thing to do.”

She pecks him on the lips and snaps the waist of his shorts. “Go take a shower. You’re disgusting.”

Logan steps closer to her and she playfully flinches away from his sweaty chest. “Ew.”

Grinning evilly, Logan keeps moving forward, corralling her into the corner with his body. “I _could_ take a shower, or…”

“Or?”

He leans forward and snags a lock of her hair, toying with it as he whispers low and husky into her ear. “I could get you all sweaty, too.”

“Okay!” Veronica says in a peppy-eager voice.

Logan, expecting a flirt and retreat, is thrown off balance. She screws her eyes up and spreads out her arms, straight and taut, as if on the rack. “Do your worst.”

He barks a laugh and murmurs, “Only you, Veronica.” _Only you._

She peels open one scrunched up lid. “I’m not sweaty yet.”

“Mm…challenge accepted.” Logan reaches out to run his palms gently up and down her arms, exerting light pressure until she brings them back down to her sides. She looks amazingly beautiful— _Real. Here.—_ in the mid-morning light. It streams through the windows, gilding her like a medieval angel, her skin glowing rosy-golden from within.

He leans in to press light kisses along her jawline; nipping, teasing smacks. With the tip of his tongue, he tickles the spot behind her ear in that way that used to make her—yep. Veronica flinches back, snort-giggling and he smiles into her skin.

She bats at his shoulders, her light swat turning into a caress that runs down his biceps. “Still not swe—” Logan sucks hard on her pulse point and gently tweaks her nipple, a combination he knows drives her wild. “—we-heh-hehhh…oh. Yeah. Yup.”

He pulls back, running his hands under her top to play just under her bra line. “Sweaty?”

She bites her top lip. “Well, I’m wet somewhere anyway.” She widens her eyes in faux-innocence and he can’t help grinning at her again.

He backs her up against the counter and leans over her. Veronica closes the distance between their mouths and lightly sucks his bottom lip into her mouth. _Mmm...slow and steady_. The burn cycling through him - lust, tenderness, love, a little bit of the ever-present fear, more lust - suffuses his whole body. 

Long minutes later and they’re still taking it slow—making out high school style against the kitchen counter. Deep, drugging tongue action. Nibbles. Suction. Wet and hot. Veronica’s jeans create a level of friction against his slick basketball shorts that rides the pleasure/pain line oh-so-nicely. Logan is trying to keep it playful, but the emotion keeps seeping through. He can’t help the small reverent kisses. _How much I’ve needed you_. The touch of forehead to forehead. _How much I’ve missed this._

Veronica reaches down and runs her hands across his bare abdomen, tracing the definition of the muscles, her fingertips catching slightly on the light stubble of his happy trail, then tracing his hip flexors. Logan’s eyes drift shut. _Jesus god, keep touching me. Never stop touching me._ Her hands dip easily below the elastic waist of his workout shorts to tease him through his boxer-briefs. Then under them.

“Damn, Veronica,” he groans rough and unsteady and no longer in any sort of control of the situation. She’s got him in the palm of her hand— _literally_ —and she can do anything she damn well pleases.

_Except stop._

With one last stroke, she pulls away a few steps—eyes intense and boring into his—and starts stripping off her top, her bra, her pants, her underwear, until she is naked in the kitchen. Naked in the sunlight, skin bitable and tender looking.

_Not-so-casual post-Christmas nudity. By far a better scenario._

She is flushing, but there is challenge in her gaze. Her expression says come and get it. Come and take it.

Logan strides over to Veronica and lifts her up; her legs wrap easily around his hips. Her body is tight around him, naked and warm and soft-hard skin over muscle over bone. A perfect miracle of creation. The intensity between them is ramping up quickly. Veronica levels another challenging gaze in his direction, humor buried far back in her eyes. Humor and hunger.

Lips on lips.

Impatiently, Logan tightens his grip on her back, anchoring them together as he walks toward the bedroom, still fused at the mouth. Veronica wriggles against him, using her heels to work his shorts off—he kicks them to the side, abandoned in the hallway—as they kiss feverishly and he almost thinks it’s going to be a repeat of the first time against the pillar.

She can’t quite manage the boxers in their current position, though, and finally his bed comes into view. He tosses her down onto the covers and wrenches his underwear off, coming down on top of her with a groan as she spreads her legs, welcoming him.

 _God, beautiful_.

“Can…?” He’s gasping for air. Barely knows what he’s asking.

Veronica just growls, reaching for his hips and helping him slam home. In the last four days they’ve done this probably a dozen times, but he never stops feeling the wonder of it. The perfect heat and emotion, the clench of her, smell of her, feel of her. _Veronica Mars_. He hopes he never does.

She’s torquing her hips up to meet his, rhythm impatient. This isn’t going to last long. _How many more times? How many more times do I get to do this?_

Their eyes lock as sweat drips down his face and he’s lost again in that perfect blue, the color of her irises a shade more intense than he’d remembered for all of the long, lost years. As he’s grunting into her, all of the times he’s used that image to calm himself seem to drift through him and away, receding off into the distance as his body takes over and his mind shuts down.

Veronica lets out a sharp gasp—his name and _faster_ and _godyes_ all jumbled together—her nails scrabbling at his back, his ass, as she arcs up toward him. Feral. Beautiful.

Desperate, Logan reaches down and, almost as soon as his fingers brush her, she’s gone, pupils blooming, her body clenching around him and taking him over the edge with her.

They collapse together, slick skin sliding against slick skin— _sweaty_ —before Logan rolls over to the side, taking Veronica with him. She’s a hearth radiating heat and he’s warm all the way through. Tiredly, he snuggles in closer. _Get warmer while you can._

Veronica is completely blissed out, sprawled against him, her thigh muscles still trembling lightly. Brushing strands of damp hair away from her face, Logan feels a surge of tenderness so strong it actually aches. “You wanna sleep?” It’s past ten in the morning, but he’s willing to bet she didn’t get much sleep. He sure as hell didn’t.

Veronica nods her head slightly. “Sleep yes.”

A thought occurs to him as he hooks the sheet with his foot, drawing it up and over their naked bodies, sweat cooling rapidly in the chilly house. “Shit, Veronica. I didn’t even ask. How’s your dad?”

“He’s good. Surgery went well. He’ll probably be out for the rest of the day.” Veronica yawns and they both start to drift into sleep. Logan is at that pleasant floaty place, dipping in and out of oblivion, when her voice comes again.  “Hey, Logan?”

“Mm?”

“I’m sorry your Christmas sucked.” She pats his naked hip lightly and rolls partially on top of him, burying her face in his chest and giving it a small kiss. “We can do better next year.”

Warmth blooms, bright and blue and beautiful as Logan closes his eyes. “Yeah, we can.”

 _Merry Christmas to us._  

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the always awesome **marshamllowtasha** for beta-ing this and being so positive about it. 
> 
> A note about the timing of the story. When I put [my timeline](https://docs.google.com/a/rrgsd.org/file/d/0ByAdl9eHvyolQWptcVNydVJoVVE/edit) together, I discovered that, given TTDTL taking place in March, the movie almost certainly had to be set right after/around Christmas. Seems odd, I know, given the lack of winter "vibe" in the movie, but there it is. 
> 
> This story is basically canon to my [Done By Only Me](http://archiveofourown.org/series/146436) series, with the small exception of the jet Logan flies (I needed him in a single seater this time). Consider this a slight zoom in on some moments that weren’t seen in [Waste of Breath.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1834330)


End file.
